All Things Illegible

Divided by zero, the world upturns itself
as the Gulf opens its wounds to the sun.

The chill grows to a cold breeze
along bubbles of foam fractaling

over broken shell after broken shell,
each scattered piece a fraction

of what I need to know.
Silkened and fragile, the white sand

smudges its shadows—their work done,
like history—and kneads steeper ridges

where the sand greets the gates
of the houses facing the sea,

where seagrass leans against fence slats
as at the edge of the world the last

bleeding inch of sunlight streaks
across the water toward these shadows,

and even the approaching dark darkens,
though when it arrives it has nothing to say.

* * * *